It's the season to think of women for no reason, of small women taller than me. Her eyes despise the scent of my shirt that apparently screams 'rape'. Yet one other shrugs, and her long neck shivers. She has stolen a few winks. She could never be, a wannabe, could it be? And more came crashing, none strikes as equally odd to me. I ponder the reason, the treason, why this season is a fraud. The same as the other season, the same as the other sod. Self-loathing and life as usual while thinking of ways to love and cherish myself and others.
Dark, darker, darkest, there is no difference. All hurts the same. Pain, everlasting, lingering. Pain, day and night. The hours are uncertain. Anything can happen now. Thinking about it hurts. Truth is unreliable. The romance is dead. My heart, it is lost. Unrecoverable, hateful, distrusting. Wishful, perhaps, but I have lost everything before and survived still. This one was special. So special. Embittered, the tip of my tongue tastes. The flavour of my life. Cuisine of kitchens unwanted. It burns, to the heart. I do not understand. I do not understand.